


Cuckoo

by envysparkler



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Enemy to Caretaker, Gen, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Whump, drugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: Tim is coerced into dropping off a surprise for the Waynes.
Relationships: Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Talia al Ghul
Comments: 165
Kudos: 838





	Cuckoo

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shrike](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396595) by [iselsis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iselsis/pseuds/iselsis). 



> Every time Ise writes a baby Jay fic, I think 'okay, but what about Tim?'. And while I usually mean Tim & Hood, I got a little tired of constantly murdering poor Jason.
> 
> Content warning: brief captivity, off-screen minor character death.

His heart was beating so loud he was sure everyone in a ten miles radius could hear it. Mr. Pennyworth had accepted his excuse of ‘the hot water stopped working, and my parents are out of town’ and now Tim was trudging up the long drive, dread churning inside of him with every step.

This was wrong.

_Just a little gift,_ a sibilant voice hissed inside his head, _I merely wish to surprise my daughter and grandson._

Lie. They both knew it was a lie. This was not a _gift_. Tim didn’t know what it was, the strange, blocky object burning a hole in his pocket, but he knew pressing the button meant nothing good.

Maybe it was a bomb. Tim had considered it, had considered pressing the button when the box had arrived on his front porch, just ending it once and for all…

But he couldn’t.

_Your parents are in Morocco, yes? Such an interesting country. I’ve wanted to visit for quite some time_.

His eyes prickled, and Tim blinked furiously. He wasn’t going to cry. He _wasn’t_. He wasn’t a child and – and he needed to do this. He needed to be strong. Or – or his parents were –

He couldn’t believe he’d trusted the man. He had seemed so _nice_ when Tim had been trawling the Batman message boards, so interested in Tim’s research, so _fascinated_ by Tim’s theories and his analyses and –

_“You’ve very clever, Timothy.”_

He was a stupid, _stupid_ kid. This was exactly what the cyber safety modules had all warned about, but Tim thought he was better, that he was smarter, that he wasn’t going to fall for a few flattering comments from an online stranger, and he was an arrogant idiot.

He’d been careful. He hadn’t given anyone his address, his full name, any details about his life – but it hadn’t mattered. The silver-tongued stranger who called himself _‘Ramses Head’_ had abruptly upended the conversation one day, asking Tim for a favor.

He wanted to surprise his daughter and grandson, and he wanted Tim to help him do it.

Tim had politely declined, uncomfortable at the idea of getting involved in someone else’s family situation, especially in Gotham, and that was when it became clear that he didn’t have a choice.

Ramses knew his name. Knew where he lived. Knew that Talia and Damian Wayne lived right next door.

Tim was exceedingly grateful that of everything he’d discussed with the man, he’d never mentioned his theory that Bruce Wayne was Batman, and Talia Wayne was Shrike.

Ramses knew were his parents were. And when Tim began protesting _harder_ , the not-quite-threats had become explicit.

_“How much electricity do you think a human being can endure, Timothy? How long without air? How long in fire?”_

And the ‘gift’ had arrived and Tim’s parents _weren’t picking up_ and Tim – Tim had no choice.

The door swung open almost before he pressed the doorbell.

“Mister Timothy,” Mr. Pennyworth said, inviting him inside the house, “I am sorry to hear about your troubles. Have your parents informed someone to fix the issue, or would you like assistance with that as well?”

He was leading Tim inwards, deeper into the house, and Tim’s mouth was dry. _Push the button_ , a small part of his mind whispered, _push the button and it will all be over. Just do it_.

“Um,” Tim said, because he was an idiot that hadn’t even considered expanding his lie before he tripped up, “They – they called someone. It’s fine.”

He just had to push the button. And leave. Presuming it wasn’t a bomb, in which case he’d be dead.

Mr. Pennyworth led him into the kitchen, and Tim stopped dead in the doorway. Bruce Wayne – _Batman_ – was already there, giving him an absent smile.

There went his last hope that the house was empty.

“Who’s this?” Mr. Wayne asked, still smiling, as Mr. Pennyworth brought a plate of biscuits to the table and gestured for Tim to take a seat.

“Mister Timothy Drake, from next door,” Mr. Pennyworth answered, “He’s having a spot of trouble with his hot water, and asked if we could help.”

“Of course,” Mr. Wayne replied, as Tim edged into the seat, hyperaware of the ‘gift’ in his pocket.

_Just push the button_.

“Did you want to take a shower? Or wait here until the problem is fixed?” Mr. Wayne asked.

“I – uh,” Tim swallowed painfully, the lump in his throat growing bigger.

_Just push the damn button._

“You’re welcome to stay here until it gets all sorted out,” Mr. Wayne said kindly, “I’m sure Jason will be happy to keep you company.”

As if summoned by his name, Jason Todd – _Robin_ – appeared in the doorway, blinking at them, with a scowling child perched on his hip.

No. _No_. He thought – he thought maybe the kids were out of the house, doing something else – he couldn’t –

_Push the button_ , Head’s voice screamed inside his mind, and Tim thought about his parents, lifeless eyes staring up, bodies like broken twigs.

“Timothy?” Mr. Wayne asked, sounding concerned, “Are you alright?”

His fingers closed around the object. He had to push the button. That was it. Just one press. Then his job was done. His parents would return.

Maybe it wasn’t something bad. Maybe it truly was a gift.

_“I merely wish to surprise my daughter and grandson.”_

Lie. _Lie_. His gaze caught on Damian, on the innocent six-year-old, and Tim couldn’t – he _wouldn’t_ –

His fingers tightened around the object.

“Timothy?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and jumped up, nearly tripping over his chair. The ‘gift’ skittered onto the table. “I’m sorry,” Tim forced out.

Mr. Wayne looked at him, and then at the blocky object, eyes narrowed but not suspicious enough. “What’s this?” he asked, frowning.

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeated, backing away. His hands were shaking. “I – I was supposed to press the button. _I’m sorry_.”

Mr. Wayne froze, his hand over the object. There was a scuffle at the doorway and Jason and Damian disappeared, replaced by a woman with a cold expression on her face. And a sword.

Tim supposed he really should be more concerned about that sword, especially when his back hit the wall, but he couldn’t.

He hadn’t pressed the button. He hadn’t followed the instructions. He _couldn’t_. Not to Batman and Shrike. Not to a _child_. He never should’ve come here.

But it was too late.

He couldn’t feel the wall behind him. He couldn’t feel the ground wavering under his feet. He couldn’t feel the sword point at his throat, and barely registered the loud conversations, the freezing cold look of fury on Mrs. Wayne’s face, the shivers in his numb fingers.

“Who are you?” Talia Wayne snapped, “And what is that?”

“I – I don’t know,” Tim stuttered, “I was supposed to press the button. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean – I’m sorry – he–he has my parents – _I’m sorry_ – I s-shouldn’t have, I’m so sorry –”

“Talia,” Mr. Wayne said sharply, and the sword at his throat drew back. Tim’s knees felt like they’d been replaced by jelly, and between one blink and the next, his tailbone was aching painfully as he stared up at a furious Shrike.

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeated, warmth dripping off his face, cold all over, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t want to, I-I didn’t, I’m so sorry, I know I s-shouldn’t have –” his voice cracked and his breath was hitching, he couldn’t take a full inhale before his lungs spasmed, again and again and again.

Shrike was kneeling, her eyes narrowed and seething, and she had a spray can in her hand and Tim squeezed his eyes shut but nothing was burning and it smelled like sharp chemicals and –

And everything was heavy and he couldn’t open his eyes and Shrike was _mad_ and Tim knew what happened to people that Shrike was mad at and he wondered how he was ever going to take pictures again if she broke all the bones in his hands.

* * *

The boy was asleep. He would remain so for another half-hour, at least. Talia could wait. She had a lot of practice in waiting.

“Talia,” Bruce said quietly. She didn’t turn towards him. She stayed where she was, and felt the rage eat her up inside. “He’s just a child.”

“I was a child once,” Talia responded, “Shall I tell you how many people I killed? How many families I tore apart? Shall I tell you how many people Damian would’ve killed, if I raised him in the League?”

“ _Talia_.”

“That EMP would’ve killed every electronic device in this house,” Talia seethed, “It would’ve torn our defenses to shreds. Damian would’ve been kidnapped, Jason would’ve been _killed_ , and your defense is _‘he’s just a child’_?”

“He didn’t activate it,” Bruce said softly, “Talia –”

“The wellbeing of everyone in this family, dependent on a crisis of conscience,” Talia snorted, “You may be willing to play those odds, but I am not.”

“He’s already terrified.”

“Good.”

“ _Talia_ –”

“You swore to me when I wed you, Beloved,” Talia turned sharply towards her husband, “That you would follow my lead in matters related to the League.” Bruce pressed his lips into a thin line. “Was that a lie?”

Bruce stared at her for a stretching moment, before he inclined his head. “Very well,” he said softly, and turned and walked away.

Talia went back to staring at the unconscious child. Young, yes. Not as young as she’d been when she had her first kill. Not as young as she’d been when she learned to torture and break and ruin.

Six years she’d been in Gotham, and this was the first time one of her father’s operatives had _made it inside her house_. She would not tolerate it.

“Hey, T.” Ah. She’d suspected that her husband had given in too easily.

“Habibi,” she turned to her son, “I thought I told you to stay upstairs.”

Jason shrugged, shifting on the balls of his feet. He peered into the cell, and made a face. He wasn’t looking at her.

“Are you going to hurt him?” he asked finally, tremulous, and Talia felt the words slice into her heart.

“He came into his house with the intention to do us harm,” Talia said quietly, “Wayne Manor’s defenses – the Cave’s defenses – if they fell, then the League of Assassins could pick us off at their leisure.”

_You don’t know how close I came to losing you, my child._

“But he didn’t,” Jason said, stepping away from the cell and meeting her gaze with a determined expression, “He _didn’t do it_.”

Talia cupped his face with a hand and brushed her thumb along his cheekbone. “I will always do what’s necessary to protect this family,” she said, quiet but firm.

Jason winced, clearly remembering the events of the last spring, and dropped his gaze. “He’s just a kid,” he said softly, “Please, Mom –” oh that little manipulator – “Don’t hurt him.”

“I promise I will listen to his side of the story before I do anything,” Talia said, and Jason seemed to realize that that was the best he was going to get. He gave her a brief hug – he hadn’t initiated this much affection since he wanted permission to go to Colorado with Richard – and slunk back to the Manor.

Talia turned back to look at the unconscious boy, and waited.

* * *

His head was pounding and his mouth was dry and he felt _awful_ – he couldn’t be sick, he’d miss out on school, and his parents would be worried and –

His parents. Ramses Head. The ‘gift’.

Tim bolted upright, and his headache felt like a spike lodged into his skull, pulsing so loudly he couldn’t hear anything else. He – he was in a cell made of glass, bright lights searing into his eyes, and beyond the glass everything was darkness and shadows, including the woman standing right behind the door.

Tim couldn’t entirely strangle the whimper. Shrike’s face was a mountain pool – entirely flat and freezing cold. He couldn’t see Batman. Or Robin. Or anyone.

Tim scrambled to his feet as Shrike unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Timothy Jackson Drake,” she said, as the door clicked shut behind her. Tim backed away until he hit the wall, but Shrike didn’t move to get closer. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

He didn’t push the button. He _didn’t push the button_. What was she – he _didn’t_ – what if it was on a timer – what if it was a lie – what if it was a _bomb_?

“I d-didn’t,” Tim stuttered, “I – I didn’t mean to – did – did someone get hurt? I’m _sorry_ – I didn’t push the button –”

“I asked you a question,” she said levelly.

Tim swallowed, and tried to remember what it was. “N-no,” he said, shaking, “I don’t – don’t know – I don’t know what the – the thing did – _I’m sorry_ –”

“It was an EMP,” Shrike said, and Tim’s blood ran cold, “It would’ve disabled every electronic in a mile radius. It would’ve crippled our security system, and it only could’ve been activated from the inside.”

Tim shook his head frantically, because he _didn’t know_. Was that better or worse than a bomb? What if they’d been running something sensitive? What if Tim had pressed the button and someone had attacked them?

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered, “I never meant to – I didn’t know, I swear – _I didn’t know_ –”

“You didn’t know?” Shrike frowned, “You don’t seem all too surprised by where you are.” She motioned to the darkness and the cell. “Or who you’re with.”

Too late, Tim realized that Shrike wasn’t wearing a mask.

“You know who I am,” Shrike said softly. It wasn’t a question. “You know who my husband is.” She hadn’t drawn her sword, but she didn’t exactly need one to attack him. “You know who my son is.” His eyes were prickling again, and Tim blinked furiously, trying to focus on her face. “And you expect me to believe that you _didn’t know_ you were delivering our destruction?”

“I – I – I –”

“Let me ask a different question, Timothy. How long have you been working for Ra’s al Ghul?”

For _who_?

Tim shook his head, “I don’t – I’ve never –”

“We found your internet records,” Shrike said, raising an elegant eyebrow, “You’ve been talking to him for a year.”

There was really only one person that could be. “R-Ramses Head?” Tim asked to confirm.

Green eyes narrowed.

“Why don’t you tell me _everything_ , Timothy,” Shrike said slowly, “And start from the beginning.”

Tim didn’t really have a choice in the matter. He took a deep breath and started speaking, swallowing whenever his voice cracked, and trying to suppress the sniffles. He kept a careful eye on her hands – not that he’d be able to dodge, but at least he’d be able to brace himself.

There was a rumor that Shrike was the one who’d torn out the Joker’s tongue.

He told her about the forums and – and how _stupid_ he’d been to start talking to someone he didn’t know, how he’d let it go on for so long – his voice broke when he talked about how he felt like someone was actually _listening_ to him, and he quickly pivoted away from that topic to tell her that Ramses had wanted him to deliver a surprise to his daughter and grandson.

“A-and I said _n-no_ , I s-swear I did, I s-said _no_ , but –” Tim had to pause to take a breath, ducking his head as the tears spilled over, “B-but then he star-started talking about m-my _parents_ and – and he knew w-who I _w-was_ and he th-threatened them and I’m _sorry_ –” his voice broke, turning to something wet and ragged, “I’m r-really sorry, I d-didn’t _want_ to, he – he said my parents – he –”

A sudden thought occurred to him. It had been hours since he entered the Manor. Ramses – Ra’s would know by now that he’d failed. His parents – _his parents_ –

“Please,” Tim whispered, looking up at Shrike’s stony countenance, “P-please, my p-parents – do you know if th-they’re okay?”

Something flickered across Shrike’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said levelly.

No.

“There was an engine error during takeoff,” she continued, “The plane carrying your parents caught fire.”

_No_.

“Your parents passed away,” she paused for a moment, “This morning. 9:34 AM.”

No _no_ no – this was all his fault – _his fault_ – wait – this _morning_?

The package hadn’t arrived till 11 AM. Ram–Ra’s had – had _promised_ – had sworn to leave his parents alone if he – he –

He’d nearly destroyed the Waynes – destroyed Batman and Shrike and Robin – and his parents had _already been dead_?

There was a horrible, keening sound, like a knife scraping down chalkboard, and his lungs were screaming and his knees slammed into the ground and someone was breaking his ribs to scoop out his heart and everything was blurry.

Dead. They were _dead_. His mother would never rest a perfumed hand on his head as he watched her apply makeup and smile wickedly at the mirror, his father would never tug him into a half-hug as they watched a tennis tournament, his mother would never scold him after watching videos of his skateboard stunts while his father grinned behind her back.

They would never come home.

They would never _come home_.

Awful sounds kept bursting from his chest as he curled up, arms crossed tightly as if that would help the huge, gaping hollow inside of him as every scrap of warmth tore itself out while he sobbed.

He’d done this.

Everything was _ruined_ , forever and ever and ever, and it was all _his fault_.

He – he’d destroyed it _all_.

Someone settled next to him, and he couldn’t even lift his head to check who it was. He just prayed that it would be over quickly – he didn’t deserve it, he didn’t deserve mercy, he deserved to _die_ – and waited for the snap of bone or slice of steel or something, _anything_ to make him forget the void inside of him.

_Please_ , he wanted to beg, _please just hurt me, please, please, make it stop, make it stop, it_ hurts _._

Hands on his shoulders. He went limp, allowing them to pull him up, allowing them to press his head against a thigh, ignoring the hard knee digging into his side. Fingers settled in his hair, and he waited for them to twist and yank, fresh tears bubbling up.

He waited.

And waited.

The fingers stroked gently through his hair, and on every down stroke, the ache in his heart tore open a little wider. The other hand rubbed small circles into his shoulder, never pressing too hard, and Tim could hear snatches of lilting words in an unfamiliar language in between the ragged wails.

He just wanted everything to _stop_ , and the gentle touches hurt _worse_ – he didn’t deserve them, he knew he didn’t deserve them, couldn’t they please just start the torture – but exhaustion was finally creeping closer, and he gladly surrendered to its embrace.

* * *

Talia gently carded her fingers through soft black hair – it was longer than Jason’s and Damian’s, and thick enough that she could run her fingers through it and tug softly at the ends in a soothing pattern.

She didn’t hear the footsteps, but she did feel the prickling presence.

“This is a surprise,” Bruce said.

Talia shushed him. “He cried himself to sleep,” she whispered. The poor child was _exhausted_.

The cot creaked when Bruce settled on it. He waited patiently for her to speak.

“You are right, Beloved,” she said finally – not a phrase she enjoyed using, but applicable in this case. “There is more than one way to skin a snake.”

“Oh?”

“I will write to my father,” Talia said softly, satisfaction infusing her tone, “And express my gratitude for the wonderful gift he’s given us.”

“Gift,” Bruce repeated, his tone level.

Talia looked up at him and smiled, “A young, orphaned detective.” She kept stroking the child’s hair. “Father needs to learn to be more careful with his toys.”

One year. Ra’s had had _one year_ , and yet failed to win the boy’s loyalty. Talia estimated it would take her two months. Six hundred years, and her father still failed to realize that you caught more flies with honey than vinegar.

“Talia,” Bruce sighed.

“The child needs a home,” she said simply, “And Ra’s needs to be taught a lesson.”

He glared at her, but there was no heat in it. From the moment he’d come in to find the boy curled up in her lap, he’d been lost.

“You’re telling Alfred,” he said – a weak threat, given that Alfred had probably already prepared a guest room.

“Fine,” Talia smiled, “But you’re telling Damian.”

Bruce winced, and Talia laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Damian is Not Happy that the boy that scared his mother is now staying with them, and he's even _less_ happy that the boy is a proverbial raincloud of misery, and anyway that's why Tim is usually found covered in ridiculously colorful patterned blankets stolen from Dick's bedroom with a kitten purring in his lap - serving the dual purpose of making him less sad and rendering him unable to attack lest he disturb the sleeping kitten.
> 
> Damian is pleased with himself. Jason is snickering behind his back. Dick's only comment, when he finally gets back to the planet, is that Damian is 100% his parents' son.
> 
> (One year later, Ra's tries again, with a mute assassin. Talia adopts this one too. They have fourteen spare bedrooms, she's not going to crack first.)


End file.
